My Destroyed City
My city used to bloom like a bride on a joyful morning. The streets were bustling with life, the voices of vendors, the laughter of children, the smell of fresh bread from old ovens, and even the noise of cars had a familiar tune. But all that has changed. Today, my city is soulless. The stones weep, and the walls whisper untold stories. The houses that once embraced their people have become ruins mourning their inhabitants. The schools are empty, the windows are shattered and the playgrounds that were once teeming with toys have become theatres of pain.
The sound of bombing has replaced the laughter of children. The smell of gunpowder has drowned out the scent of flowers. Even the sky is afraid to look down, as if it cannot bear to see what this place has become. But despite everything, I still love my city. I love it with its destruction, its memories, its pain. I will remember it as it was, and I will dream of it as it should be. My city is not just a place; it is the pulse of my heart, the pain of my soul, and a hope that will never die.
City of Tents
There was life, beautiful streets bustling with footsteps, shops opening their doors early in the morning, the voices of vendors mingling with the laughter of children, and cars moving along roads that knew nothing but safety.
The sidewalks bore witness to the stories of passers-by.
Every corner held a little secret.
Every house had a special scent, of coffee brewing or hot bread filling the neighbourhood with warmth.
The night was quiet, with lamplights scattered like tiny stars descending to inhabit the city.
But…
The features changed.
All this beauty turned into tents,
the dreams into suitcases, and the beautiful streets vanished, as if they had never existed. It was Gaza, the city of tents.
Operations in Gaza
In the picture – an operating room,
but it’s not an ordinary one.
This is northern Gaza,
where doctors endured
six hundred and forty days,
under siege,
under arrest,
under beating.
Here, the operation is performed without electricity,
without any equipment
except the doctor’s heart,
and the light of a small phone,
guarding life from the darkness.
This is Gaza,
steadfast in the face of injury,
persevering until the last heartbeat.
Anas Al-Sharif – The Voice of Gaza
In Jabalia, where the alleys embrace memory,
a boy grew up who knew nothing but honesty.
He carried his camera like a rifle,
writing with light a testimony of blood and tears.
His voice was like the pulse of the sea on the shores of Gaza.
He feared no storm.
He revealed the truth as it was,
naked of falsehood, drenched in blood.
He didn’t sell the cries of children to the podiums,
nor did he embellish the ashes into elegant trash.
He showed the world what it is like in our hearts:
harsh, burning, and honest.
Anas Al-Sharif… He wasn’t a news reporter,
but rather a news story in and of itself.
A martyr of the word, and a revealer of the betrayal
of those who remained silent,
and of those who turned their backs on Gaza as it bled.